Two cups of tea for one
by johnl0cked
Summary: A really short Johnlock story in which John and Sherlock spend some time together, with a bitter twist at the end.


Sherlock sighed in frustration. He half-heartedly plucked at the strings of his violin, occasionally running his fingers along the smooth, rich curve of the wood, wishing it was John laying in his lap, and not just a musical instrument. He threw a furtive glance upwards, letting his eyes skim over John, who was sitting in the armchair, his laptop balanced on his knee. It didn't take the worlds only consulting detective to figure out what he was doing.

"That blog..." Sherlock muttered with a slight roll of his eyes. John raised his head and glared at the sofa, but Sherlock had already lowered his gaze and was continuing to run his elegant fingers over the body of his violin. Smug that'd he'd captivated John's attention, he kept his head bowed.

"Sherlock!" John eventually snapped.

"What?!"

"You know exactly what." Sherlock raised his shoulders slightly, in a non-committal shrug. John's brow furrowed, "What is up with you?", he barked. Sherlock shook his head slightly,

"Nothing." The annoyance drained from John and he stared wistfully at his friend. No longer angry, just concerned. John sighed gently to himself. He wished that Sherlock would talk to him. His silence and inability to share his emotions worried John. Even while he worked, there was always a niggling in the back of John's mind, wondering what was going on in that strange, but wonderful head. John tapped a few more keys on his laptop, snapped the lid down, and lifted himself out of the chair. Sherlock lifted his head, parted his lips and,

"Just tea for me, please?", John quipped, smiling slightly at Sherlock, who gently closed his lips again and, for the first time that evening, let a warm smile cross his face.

"Oh John," He laughed quietly, "You'll have me out of my job." The joke made John smile, and for a second he stood there, eyes full of wonder, unable to believe he could ever be angry at such a beautiful face. Breaking himself away from the moment, John shook his head and continued to the kitchen. Sherlock, more bored than ever with the motionless lump of wood, contemplated his options but, unable to resist, rested his violin against the battered arm if the sofa and padded after John into the kitchen.

Standing by the counter Sherlock ran his eyes over John. He could tell he still hadn't called his sister, and that he hadn't got much, probably 1 or 2 hours, sleep last night, even that he hadn't showered for two, no, three days. But, when John briefly turned round and met Sherlock's eyes, there was an emotion, something undetectable beneath the surface that even Sherlock couldn't quite read. John, feeling some kind of frustration resurfacing in Sherlock, carefully passed him his tea, offering with it a small smile.

"Sherlock," He began, "Is there something bothering you? Because, because, well if there is I want you to know that you can talk to me about it I mean..." John began trailing off, before finishing quietly, "if you want." With a curt nod, Sherlock turned on his heels, and began wondering back to the living room, before placing his tea on a pile of books, and curling up in the comforting sag of the sofa cushions. His head jerked in astonishment when, a few seconds later, John sat down next to him.

"John," a pause, "I'm sorry." John, taken aback by such a sudden, if only slight, slip of Sherlock's mask, stammered a reply.

"Why Sherlock? You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"I'm sorry. Sorry for being so difficult." Sherlock gulped, "You're the only friend I have in the world, John Watson, I don't mean to push you away. It's just me. I just do it. I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I... I... don't want to lose you." Sherlock turned his head, blushing slightly, embarrassed by his outburst. John blinked, stunned at by Sherlock's statement. Unable to contain it any longer, John outstretched his arms and brought Sherlock close to him. He buried his face in the familiar, untamed curls and let out a small sob and, just for a second, he swore he felt the long, slim arms of his only friend grasp him a little tighter. John couldn't help it, the tears began falling harder than ever as he tried so hard to hold on to the fading shape in his arms.

"Sherlock, please. I never want to lose you either." but it was too late. John gasped, clutching desperately to the folds of blue material in his arms. He prayed that one day they would be filled again with the comforting, utterly beautiful body of Sherlock; his friend, his flatmate, and the only ever consulting detective.

**Author's note: Thank you for reading! Sorry for how short this is, and for any spelling/grammar errors - the whole thing was written (and spell checked!) in a rush. Also, apologies if the story sounds a bit disjointed, I intended to make it a fluffy Johnlock story, but then in the last few senteces I changed my mind, and threw in the twist!**


End file.
